


Shoulder to Shoulder

by tielan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: sheppard_hc, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Off-World, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and Teyla are trapped on a planet with a group of refugees, John begins to fall sick. But this time, there's no Atlantis, no modern medicine, no miracle cure. It's just him and Teyla's assistance against the illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoulder to Shoulder

They’re walking back from the trap rounds one afternoon when John’s stomach rebels.

He manages to turn aside in time to throw up his lunch behind a tree, physiology making a liar out of his earlier protests that he was fine, just a little tired.

“Think we’d best get you back to camp,” says Jemary from behind him. “I said to Teyla you weren’t well this morning.”

With his hand on the trunk of the tree to steady him, John concentrates on controlling his stomach’s residual heaves, and not falling over. He’s been feeling a little dizzy all morning, the sunlight a little too bright, the noises of the forest a little too loud. Yeah, he wasn’t feeling good, but it’s not like he can take a day off.

Too many things to be done for survival, and not much that John’s any good at other than hard work.

“She didn’t say anything when we left.”

When he’d told her he was joining Jemary to check the snares, her eyebrows had risen halfway up her forehead, but she’d otherwise let him go with nothing more than her customary, “ _Take care._ ”

John doesn’t let himself think about what she’s going to say - or, worse, _not_ say - when they get back to the camp. He spits the last of the bile from his mouth and wipes his mouth on his wrist. The spiced tubers don’t taste any better coming up than they did going down.

“Here.” A waterskin is thrust into his line of sight, offered by a weatherbeaten hand, and he takes it gratefully, using the first mouthful to rinse out his mouth, and swallowing the second.

It tastes kinda muddy, but there’s no helping that. They’ve filtered and boiled the water, but they ran out of purifying tablets a week ago, and the portable water filter that should have been in the emergency supplies of the ‘jumper wasn’t. Someone on the maintenance staff in Atlantis is going to be having a very long, very pointed conversation with John when he gets back to the city.

“Thanks.” He hands the waterskin back to Jemary, and stands straight, wincing a little as his stomach cramps. “Let’s go.”

“I'll get back some of the other men--”

“I’m fine.” He gives Jemary what’s meant to be a reassuring smile, although he has a feeling his mouth is writing cheques his body isn’t about to cash.

“If you say.” Jemary's mouth has a twist to it as he slings the waterskin onto his shoulder and kicking dirt over the vomit. “You should rest when we get back.”

“Too much to do.”

“Won’t hurt nobody to leave it lying a few days more.”

On the way back to the camp, John concentrates on getting one foot in front of the other, and not throwing up again.

\--

It is pleasantly warm in the open-fronted tent where Teyla and three of the Venitrians are calculating their stores and goods for barter, and discussing what they needed to trade for, and what they could produce themselves.

They were lucky, to come to land in the part of the planet that is springside. And that John was good enough to bring them down whole, even when he could not save the 'jumper.

“With the hireni hunt so successful, perhaps we won’t need to trade with the river people?”

“No.” Teyla shakes her head. “Trade will be necessary. They have grains and pulses, as well as carved and woven things beyond what we can produce.”

“Oh. I was hoping...”

She perfectly understands Shalia’s sentiments. The riverside dwellers upstream were coolly polite at best during their first meetings, and have not improved with continued contact. The inland villagers are no friendlier. Privately, Teyla is uncertain as to how long before there is a confrontation, and not merely the terse interactions during their trading meetings.

It would help if they had anything useful to trade, but they took everything useful from the ‘jumper when they left it, ploughed deep into a grassy field after they fell from the sky.

“We will deal with them as they deal with us,” Teyla tells the young woman. “With caution and care and discretion as necessary.”

Shalia's lips pinch down at the corners as she picks up the stylus and scribes once more on the slate. “It feels like begging."

There’s the sound of running feet - the children of the camp taking the slippery paths too fast. Teyla does not allow herself to think about her own son, far away in Atlantis, or possibly on Athos with Kanaan. When they did not return, Ronon and Rodney would have seen to Torran’s care - even if it was only to tell the Athosians that they were missing.

“Teyla! Teyla!” Corin grabs the tent rope and uses it as a pivot for his turn. “John’s back. And he’s sick!”

Teyla glances over at Shalia and Fraiye. At their shooing motions, she unfolds herself from the table made of wooden logs and the cannibalised insides of a ‘jumper panel, and goes to see her team-mate.

Just out past the camp, John stands with one hand on a tree, voiding his stomach with vicious retches. Some of the children hover nearby, although they scatter as she comes up to where Jemery stands, his waterbottle slung off his shoulder.

“He took sick on the way back. I said he shouldn't go out this morning.”

Teyla takes the waterskin from him as he leaves with a pat on her shoulder for reassurance.

John doesn’t turn away from where he’s wiping his mouth. “Not gonna read me my rights?”

“I do not need to." Her gaze pulls no punches, and John doesn't dissemble. He pushes himself too hard, and even he knows it. “How are you now?”

“Better.”

“But not hale.” Teyla waits until he seems stable, then offers him the waterskin. “We have supplies enough for the moment - you will not be needed to go out hunting tonight.”

He nods, but doesn't move immediately, either to take the skin or to push off from the tree. Instead, his eyes track towards the sky. “They’ve got to be looking for us.”

“They are.”

Neither speaks the thought that has been growing ever larger in their minds. It has been nearly thirty days since they came through the Stargate and into the asteroid field, and if Atlantis has not yet found them, then it may well be that there is no-one to come looking.

\--

That afternoon, John rests.

His body enforces it, refusing to settle after the morning upset. He tries to refuse the precious grain-gruel Fraiye pushes upon him, but starving himself won’t help things and in the end he accepts not only that but some of the precious dried _kusel_ to sweeten it. Sugar and carbs to help his body get back on the treadmill.

Teyla gives him some things to sort through - picking through the greens for the evening’s dinner, then sharpening tent pegs, and fixing fraying rope ends. It’s not what he’d prefer to do, but it’s not as though they can afford to have him sitting doing nothing all afternoon.

Out here, survival isn’t as simple as finding food. It’s building things from scratch, with very few tools and very little by way of starting materials.

Every hand is necessary.

Well, all those hands that aren’t asleep, at least.

John wakes to the giggles of the children, peeping at him from around the tree. The sun is low in the sky, although the afternoon’s still pretty warm. The knife for the carving of tent pegs sits loose on his thigh, and the peg he was carving has fallen to the ground.

When he reaches for it, his hand shakes, and he’s overcome by a sudden bout of shivering.

The kids notice, of course, and one of them hares off, calling for Teyla.

“No,” he says, but his throat barely works. “Don’t--”

Teyla brushes his protesting hands aside and presses her forearm against his forehead. Her skin is cool, fresh glory against his. “Your skin is burning." John winces at the flatness of her voice. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“Hey, I was just... I just fell asleep.”

She rocks back on her heels. “Can you stand up yourself?”

John starts to rise. Stops. Glances up to where she’s watching him with that oh-so-careful expression of neutrality, and doesn't ask for assistance but uses the tree trunk he was leaning against to lever himself up by slow inches.

When he’s finally standing, he’s panting. His legs ache. His muscles burn like he just climbed the spire of Atlantis and even breathing is chore. He’s not even sure he could make it to his tent without falling over.

And Teyla just stands there, her expression concerned, but making no move to help him until he lifts his arm for her to duck beneath.

“We don’t have time for me to fall sick.”

“No,” she agrees as she takes his weight on her shoulders. His legs feel like there’s no bone in them and barely enough muscle to hold himself upright. “And yet you are, and without rest, you will not get better.” Her glance slants up at him from under his arm.

John gets the message, loud and clear. Whatever he wants, his body has other ideas, and the spirit can be as willing and determined as it likes; his flesh isn't having any of it.

"What do you think is causing this sickness?" Teyla asked. "No-one else in the camp has fallen sick."

"Rub it in, why don't you?" But the protest is half-hearted; Teyla has a point. John's the only one sick, everyone else is hale and healthy and going about their chores with only a brief concerned glance his way. "It's specific to me."

"You ate nothing, drank nothing while setting the snares with Jemery?"

"Only the water he gave me. But I was sick before that." John pauses as something occurs to him. "Back on new Athos, you guys just took water from the river, didn't you?"

"Of course. Although there is talk of digging a well. Why?"

"On Earth, they treat drinking water - put fluoride in it to keep it clean. To stop bacteria and organisms. And Atlantis cleans the water it takes from the sea."

Understanding dawns. She's been on a team with Rodney for nearly four years, after all. "When the iodine tablets ran out..."

"Yeah. My body's not used to this." They're at his tent, and Teyla ducks under the flap with practised ease, so John's head doesn't even brush the ceiling.

"We can only boil the river water..." Teyla eases him down to his bedroll and the softbrush 'mattress' underneath it. "I will speak with Shalia about trading for more of the grain ferments..."

John's too busy fumbling for a stable position in the bedroll to say anything. But when he's firmly down and is pretty sure he's not going to fall over, he catches Teyla's wrist. "No."

"If the water is making you sick..."

"Then I'll have to get used to it." John grimaces. He doesn't like the idea any more than she does, but he's well aware that they're stuck here for God only knows how long. And in the long-term, he'll have to drink the water, because they can't be permanently reliant on trade with the riverside villagers. He takes a deep breath, lets it out; he doesn't think about how his chest feels thick, or that his body aches in twinges and trembles that mean he feels old and that it's probably not going to get better anytime soon.

He's healthy as things go, he can get past this and he will.

He has to.

\--

Teyla returns from her hunt with a young _hireni_ buck across her shoulders and her bloodskin full and swinging awkward against her thigh as she walks. John might think it gross, but protein is protein, and when they have so little, even the steamed cubes of blood provide sustenance.

There are children out in the forest, grazing for nuts and berries, edible grasses and tubers.

John is with them, his P-90 laid out across his knees and half-covered in woodchips as he roughs out pegs for joinery, chatting with the youngest - a little girl whose eyes are huge in her face as she tells him about time her brother found a monster in the well.

“...it was all fluffy and snappy,” she is saying as Teyla comes along the trail. “Only all wet instead of fluffy. Teyla!”

John looks up, his eyes the green of new leaves in morning sunlight, and smiles. “Good hunting?”

“Very much so.” It would have been better with him, but his health is not yet up to it. “Good grazing?”

“Good enough.” He indicates the piles laid out at his feet, on top of their fabric-covered bags, then watches as Zseni scrambles up at someone else’s call. “There’s been some trouble with the locals,” he says when she’s out of earshot. “One of the leaders of the river villages is accusing us of poaching on his lands.”

“Tsaran from Short Curve village.”

Brows lift. “You heard already?”

“No. But he was...difficult at the last meeting.”

“Apparently, he’s escalated.”

Teyla grimaces and shifts the buck on her shoulders. “Has he threatened anyone?”

“Not yet.” John patted the P-90. “Shalia sent me out - just in case. And I think she saw that I was going stir-crazy.”

“Small steps.” It is not the reassurance she wishes she could give him, but she has nothing else. There is no way past his sickness but the slow recovery - no pills to pop, no injections to take, not even the prospect of water from one of the wells by the inland village.

“Yeah, well...” He manages a smile, and although there is warmth in it, Teyla can see the weariness in it, too. John is good at hiding his emotions, but she is good at reading past his insouciance. “You head on back to the camp with that. And save me a steak!”

As she walks back to the camp, Teyla would save him half the hireni if she thought it would make him hale.

This trouble with the local peoples is not unexpected. With the Stargate not only up in the atmosphere, but also placed in the asteroid field, the villages have grown suspicious of outsiders, small-minded and insular. The appearance of newcomers, while of interest to the young and curious, is seen as a danger by those who are more set in their ways, accustomed to unchallenged authority.

Tsaran is one such.

If she were Rodney or Ronon, she might have more to offer the locals, perhaps. Even a trader can only work with what she has, and what the refugee Venitrians have is less than what the locals have.

Upon her return to the camp with the hireni, Teyla hands over the blood-skin to the cooks and the buck to those who have more practise in jointing such. She can field-dress a carcass if necessary, but not with Hannin's skill - he was the butcher back on the planet from which they were evacuated, trading with the hunters for the meat and offal of their catch.

Here, Teyla does not argue or bargain, but merely hands it over. Her skills at hunting are moderate; her  advantage lies in the Atlantean weaponry that fires swift and hits hard. At the start, John came with her, but since his sickness...

She goes to check on Shalia, and upon finding that she is not needed for anything in the camp right now, heads back to find John and the foraging children.

As she reaches the 'limits' of their village, Teyla allows herself to be concerned without the weight of others' eyes upon her. Out here without the assistances that are not thought of in Atlantis, John is struggling. Yes, John is healthy, and strong in spirit. But he has never lived so rough before. His body will adjust but it will take time that Teyla is not certain they have.

When she sees the children come running, she knows they are out of time.

\--

John doesn’t feel so good after Teyla pauses by on her way back from hunting.

A small part of it’s the fact that he should have been out there hunting with her, except for this damned sickness. And it’s not gone away quite yet. He can feel it lurking, like the awareness that he’s being targeted in someone’s cross-hairs, maybe not in his immediate airspace, but further out, on some screen in Kandahar.

"John?" One of the older kids - Callin, son of Hannin - peers anxiously at him. "You don't look well."

He smiles - what Teyla would probably call ‘the smile of wrongness’. “I’ll be fine.” But he’s not so sure about that. His stomach’s beginning to ache, like something from lunch has decided to wait until now to object. He grimaces and shifts his stance a little, trying to settle the unnerving gurgle in his abdomen.

“You need Teyla,” says Callin with the same kind of firmness that John’s seen in the women of the camp. “I’ll go get her!”

And before John can protest, the boy is scampering off along the trail.

He tries to struggle to his feet, but the world is beginning to spin. Maybe not such a good idea after all.

The other children mill around, worried by Callin’s departure but not sure what else to do. Their expressions are anxious as they crowd around him, and he tries to get them to move back. Still, the little ones insist on hovering over him.

“I’m fine!” It comes out a little more irritably than he intends. His tongue feels thick and fuzzy, as though it’s swollen to a size his mouth can’t handle. And it’s beginning to tingle, rather unpleasantly.

Footsteps run to him - adult footsteps, booted, heavy. Cold hands press against his skin, and he begins to bat them away, but then sees Teyla’s face above the hands. Deep concern.

“John!” Teyla’s fingers tilt up his chin and he presses his cheek into that coolness briefly. “You are running a fever. Do you feel nauseous again?”

“No.” John’s stomach rumbles, and Teyla’s brows rise in skepticism that might be amused if the situation was less dire. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Rather worse than feeling like he's about to vomit is the growing sensation that he's about to shit his pants. “Help me up.” When she hesitates, uncertain of what he means to do, he begs. “Please, Teyla.”

She sees his urgency, unclips his P-90, checking the safety before she puts it down, then helps him to his feet and doesn't restrain him when he moves away. Thank God. He's not sure he could do dignity after soiling himself.

Then again, squatting in the dirt with kids peeping around the bushes isn't particularly dignified either, but it's better than losing control like that.

Beyond the screening  scrub, one of the children has reported his movements back to Teyla in a clear piping voice that carries. The heat of his embarrassment only adds to the dizziness, and he wobbles a little, even in his crouch. Luckily, he manages to roll away and get his trousers up without further incident, although the stench is foul.

"Ewww!"

He can hear Teyla calling back the children, quieting them, and sending them back to camp with their gleanings. After a  moment, her voice sounds close by. "John?"

"Yeah," he says - or something like it. And Teyla steps around the tree, concerned for his health but careful of his dignity. And John's beyond grateful for that.

"I don’t believe you are over the sickness yet," she says as she helps him up, making no comment about the stench, merely kicking soil and rocks over his leavings. "Will you come back to camp and lie down?"

“I get a choice?”

Her smile is warm but tired, too. And John feels irrationally guilty and wonders if she's going to support him all the way back to the camp by herself. A moment later there are deep voices and several of the Venitrians are there to help him.

John insists on walking back on his own two feet - far better than being carried. But by the time he reaches his tent, he feels lightheaded, like he’s about to pass out from G-LOC.

\--

The next days are, to put it simply, dreadful.

For nearly five days, John lies in a constant fever, occasionally lucid, mostly delirious.

Teyla acts as nursemaid insofar as she is able; with the assistance of various Venitrians to help turn and move John.

“Is there anything we could trade for him that might help?” Shalia says when she comes to see Teyla just before the trade delegation prepares to set out for the neighbouring village.

Teyla glances back through the tent-flap at John, lying on his pallet, sleeping peacefully for a stint. He has swung between restless sleep and these near-dead periods since they brought him back from the day out in the woods with the children. “Something to bring down a fever,” she said. “On Athos, there was a little flower that, when dried, would cool the blood - the scarlet soothflower.”

“I shall ask. The plants here are not like the ones we know.” Shalia looks along the path, towards where three men are hauling on the leather-strapped packs they are taking with trade-goods. “Have you thought of taking him down to the river? It may cool his body more effectively than the damp cloths.”

“Yes, Jemary suggested it this morning.” Teyla assays a smile. She does not explain that the fever is the symptom of something that they have no medicine for, and immersing a feverish John in the cool water of the river is more likely to hurt than heal. “I shall see how he is tomorrow, after your return.”

“You should sleep. Find someone else to watch him.”

Teyla neither agrees nor disagrees, but sees Shalia off with the others and returns to the tent.

She pushes back the flap and discovers John half-naked on the floor, halfway to the bedpan, weak as a newborn, and sweating profusely.

Lucid, then. Anger leaches through, even in the midst of compassion as she gets her shoulder under his arm and helps him up. “You should have called for help.”

“Didn’t...want to bother...”

Against her cheek, the skin of his shoulder is still burning hot. The fever hasn't yet broken, although he slips in and out of lucidity by days and periods.

Teyla helps him to the bedpan and leaves, closing the tent flap to grant him the privacy John requires to relieve himself. Added privacy is given by going down to the fire tent to see if there is any grain-gruel left. There is none, although there is bone soup for the noonday meal, which should suffice.

When she returns, he has already struggled back to the bed. His eyes are closed and his head thrown back as his breathing rasps hoarsely through the tent, but they open upon her entrance.

"How is the pain today?"

His mouth twitches. "I'm fine."

"For a given value of 'fine'?" Teyla's mouth curves as she brings over the bowl. "I have brought food and some milks from our trading."

"No water?"

“None that you should be drinking. We have tried to trade with one of the inland villages for their spring water...”

“No joy?”

“None.” Weapons are out of the question and the medicines are of little use unless for specific ailments. If the flashlights still worked...but they ran out of batteries within days, even using them sparingly. "Are you able to sit up and eat?"

It takes some effort, but they get the bedding pads beneath him so he can sit up and feed himself. Stubborn as John is, he prefers to expend his energy doing things for himself rather than be looked after. Teyla leaves him with the bowl, pins up the sides of the tent and goes to empty the bedpan in the soil pit - built carefully high and away from the point where they collect water from the river.

The issue of water that John can drink is still a problem, and one for which they have no solution. Without power, the 'jumper's internal water filtering systems do not work, or else she would have made the journey back to the crashed craft days before.

She rinses out the bedpan with a skin of river water that hung on a hook for that purpose, grimacing a little as she shakes the bedpan out, careful to avoid the splatter of drops as they spun out through the sunlight...

Sunlight. There was something about sunlight and water...

“Teyla? Is all well?”

Distracted, she blinks at Fraiye. “I am gathering dust,” she says, only half-laughing at herself as she hangs the bedpan aside to drain and dry a little in the morning. Fear touches her, sharp and sudden. “John?”

“Eshtom is sitting with him now with the pegs. Come, have a moment to yourself...”

“I should be returning,” Teyla begins, but the older woman puts a firm hand on her wrist and leads her away.

“You should rest. Don’t think we haven’t noticed you wearing yourself down to a thread,” she warns. “Eshtom will call if there is need for you. But I think that John will appreciate another face and another voice - as will you. You are not his wife, there is no need for you to hover over him.”

It is a relief to sit outside and relax and not have to think of what needs must be done next. Teyla lets Fraiye bring her hot water for cleaning her hands, then tea and leaf-wrapped parcel of smoked meat. The conversation is of the small things that are nevertheless important. The gardens they are planting, the furniture being made, the trappings and buildings taking place, inch by slow inch.

And, of course, John.

“He grows no worse?”

“No worse, but no better either.” Teyla looks back along the path towards the tent with a sigh.

“And it’s the water, you say? Not clean enough for him?”

“No.” She looks down into her cup at the betraying glimmer of something that should bring life and health, but is only sickness to John. And there are no medicines, no clean care; though all the consideration of the Venitrians is John’s, it is not enough to bring him back to health.

A breeze strikes up, shifting the leaves overhead in a rustling wave, and Teyla breathes in the warming air and tries to think of what might be done for John beyond making him as comfortable as she can. There are tisanes to settle his stomach and the scarlet sootheflower might help if they have anything comparable here...

If only they had something in the ‘jumper. Yet they went through all the compartments, looking for anything, however minor, that might be of the slightest use...

In the bottom of her cup, the small circle of light and liquid shimmers, and the shadows in it dance, like something seen in the corner of the eye, heard absently while one’s attention is elsewhere, recalled with difficulty like a butterfly of thought flitting through the forest of the mind...

 _You’ve got a brain, Teyla,_ snaps a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Rodney. _Use it!_

And suddenly she remembers.

“Teyla?” Fraiye looks up as she puts the cup aside. “Is all well?”

“Yes,” she says, and feels lighter than she has in days as she stands. “Better than well. But there is somewhere I must go.”

\--

John’s tied up in a Wraithship. Bound in one of those cramped niches, waiting to die. Only he’s not cold but burning up. His flesh feels incandescent as he struggles against the webbing holding him down, rough and fibrous against his skin as he tries to tear it off, tries to break away - to be free.

His muscles strain, but suddenly there’s Wraith there, their hands strong on his arms as he struggles, pinning his legs down. Then he’s lying, cocooned and pinned on the ground, writhing. Muscles strain and bone aches as they hold him down with unkind hands, forcing him back, and he screams until his throat is hoarse and the sweat tickles through his hair and soaks the webbing that holds him down.

But they don’t drain him. Their hands on him don’t bite his flesh the way Todd’s once did. They just hold him down until his meagre strength is gone and there’s only the exhaustion and the terror left.

His stomach revolts, cramping, and he gasps for breath but can’t seem to get enough. Black spots appear across his eyes and his vision spins.

Time passes, but he doesn’t know how much, only that the pain and the imprisonment continues, through the hours of day and night, blurring into the darkness.

During this time that is no time, he retches - dry heaving - and they let him go as he spits out nothing more than saliva and stomach juices, bitter and empty. Then they fill him up again and his stomach rebels.

Liquid trickles down his throat, down his brow, down his chest. Dribbled out by slow degress, like his strength, until he can barely breathe.

At some stage, his hands are free and he drags them across his burning brow, wishing for cool hands to press against his skin.

 _Teyla_. Teyla should be here and she’s not. Where is she? Has Michael taken her again? Except that Michael’s dead, drowned in the waves about Atlantis, his body waterlogged and sodden as they dredged him from the floor of the sea.

John’s burning up again, and his gut hurts - or is that the side that was speared through when they went looking for Teyla in Michael’s lab?

He puts a hand to his side but there’s nothing there but the scar, and his fingers burn into his flesh, another agony. He rolls over and tries to get to his feet - he’s got to find Teyla, or else it’s all for nothing: Atlantis, the expedition, the Pegasus galaxy - but the webbing drags at his feet and he stumbles. Hands clutch at him and he tries to shake them off, but they drag him back to the cell and push him down to the horizontal surface while he tries to fight them off and is held down.

Above him, conversations swirl through the light air, resisting his attempts to make sense of them.

“How long did she--?”

“--all day and much of the night.”

“--you didn’t send anyone--?”

 “--wouldn’t even take one of the children--”

“--she doesn’t come back--”

“--well able to take care of--.”

“--not settling down without--.”

“--had few touchstones in his life; little wonder he clings to--"

He shudders, and the hiccuping breath stabs at his lungs and quakes his eyeballs in their sockets. He shivers and shakes and tosses and struggles, trying to get free so he can find something he's lost. Something. Someone. Somewhere.

There's something damp and cool on his brow and he reaches out to push it away, catches a cool-skinned wrist.

"John!" Her fingertips turn his face towards her, and the damp cloth continues to swab down his skin. And John relaxes, squinting up through the hazy light at her familiar silhouette.

"You went away," he says, or tries to. His breath comes short and the words won't form on his lips. His sense of time is all screwed up and he has no idea how long she was away.

"There was something I needed to get," she says, and leaves her hand resting on his forehead as she sponges him down with cool water, dousing his fever. “Something I forgot. I had to return to the ‘jumper site to get it.”

John can't quite see her without squinting, and his throat is burning again, although his body doesn't feel so bad anymore. Keeping his eyes open is exhausting, though, and now that he's found Teyla - or Teyla's found him, maybe he can sleep with her hands cooling his cheeks and forehead...

Maybe he can...

His head is throbbing lightly when he wakes. The tent is dark inside, and empty of anyone but him. But his body doesn't feel like there's a fire under his skin although the covers over him are still too warm. His joints are sore, but at least they don't feel like they're about to fall apart. And John can almost breathe without pain, although after sniffing the air, he's not sure he wants to - the tent reeks of things he doesn't want to think about.

Teyla...

He hears her outside the tent, speaking in lowered tones to someone out there - one of the Venitrians. It’s nothing he can hear clearly, just the cadences of her voice; familiar and comforting in that familiarity. She’s still here. He’s still alive.

And maybe it if he tries he can stay awake until...

Darkness reaches up to envelop him, and he lets his eyes drift shut.

\--

She leaves the camp while John is sleeping, walking out into the late afternoon with Jemary at her heels.

“You sure of this?”

“It is the best time for it,” she says, glancing back at the camp and John’s tent. He is in good hands, she knows, but after the fever that wracked him while she was gone to the ‘jumper, Teyla is uncomfortable at leaving him again, however necessary.

“He’ll be right,” says Jemary, patting her on the shoulder. “Fraiye will manage him. He’s probably over the worst of it now.”

If Teyla has anything to do with it, John is over the worst of it. But that is why they are setting out now, today, in the late afternoon when the twilight threatens. It will be a long walk back in darkness from where they are bound, but Jemary knows the paths through the forest, and Teyla trusts his guidance.

She checks her pack one more time as they crest the hill - it will be to no avail to travel so far and then realise they have forgotten what they intended to bring in the first place.

If only she had recalled Rodney’s habit of stashing things away!

But recriminations do nothing in the now. Teyla sets out for the inland village, following the trapping trails that sketch their way through the forest - clearly-marked at first, but soon vanishing to nothing more than the occasional broken branch, or gap in the scrub.

“You’re worried about your people.”

“As you are worried about yours.” They haven’t really spoken of the other Venitrians, of what the refugees have lost - not only their planet and homes, but the others of their community. The misdial had been an accident, the last chevron incorrect, but they needed an exit, and John had dragged the information about the ‘gate from the ‘jumper’s database - a mere shadow of Atlantis’ full one, but enough to tell them that the Stargate was in orbit and they could go through and redial from there.

The asteroid field into which they’d emerged had been an unexpected complication.

“I figure our people have yours to keep an eye on them. They’d have got them to safety, if it was possible.”

“Yes. Safety and security,” Teyla can say that much with surety. “And they will be looking for us.” If there was anyone left to do the seeking. But she does not express that to Jemary any more than she said it to John all those days ago.

“Well, when they find us, they find us,” says Jemary, pushing back tree branches and ducking under vine-covered branches. “In the meantime, we’ll all work at keeping body and spirit whole and together.”

And he sounds so certain that Teyla cannot help but smile.

It’s setting twilight when they reached the edges of the fields, pausing there to allow themselves to be seen by the villagers in the lastlight. No river here - at least, not like the great river that rushes so close to the camp they’d made. Just a glittering stream that winds its way through the landscape and the covered well close to the village itself.

Teyla lifs a hand as she sees heads turn, but stands her ground a moment longer before starting down the path that runs between the unfenced fields towards the village and the men gathering there, their hoes in hand.

“Greetings,” she calls when they’re in earshot. “I am Teyla of Athos.”

“One of the roaming ones,” says the leader, bristling as he frowns at her.

“Only when we needs must trade,” Teyla answers with a smile. “Our people have exchanged goods and services before.”

“We need nothing you can provide!”

“Perhaps not,” she says. “And yet I would ask a trade nonetheless.”

“We do not trade with strangers.”

“Then perhaps you will sit with me and take some of the forest wine, and we shall no longer be strangers.” Teyla says, smiling.

Behind the leader, the field workers shift at the mention of wine, men and women both. The finest of the wines are made by the river folk and are rarely traded to the inland villages.

“And speak of trade, I suppose?”

“If you are willing.” Teyla knows perfectly well that once she can persuade him to unthaw this much - with the assistance of a very little wine - then she can make the trade.

“There’s no harm in hearing her out,” says one of the women behind, and in her eyes is cunning.

Teyla smiles again and looks at the leader.

“All right,” he says, grudgingly. “But we won’t talk trade.”

“As you will,” she says, the smile still fixed on her face.

\--

John tastes the water and nearly chokes on it. Teyla has to help him lean forward on the stump so he can splutter to his heart’s content, even if his lungs and belly protest at the strain.

He probably shouldn’t be out of bed. Even getting this far was exhausting. But John’s so tired of the stench of the tent and the bed and never seeing the sun... He even suffered himself to be carried out like he was too weak to walk. Which, maybe, he is. And he feels only slightly better than shit.

He’s feeling a lot better now.

“This isn’t river water.”

“No.” A smile teases the corners of her mouth, Teyla in subdued delight. “It was taken from the Kyllian well.”

“I thought they wouldn’t--” John breaks off as it occurs to him. “What did you trade for it?”

“Nothing important, John. Just the flashlight.”

His brain’s still scrambled from the fever. That’s his excuse and he’s sticking with it, because he could have sworn she said she traded the flashlight for the well-water.

“The flashlight?”

“Yes.”

“But it didn’t have batteries!”

“Yes, it did,” she said. “Rodney had some stashed away in a compartment behind one of the chairs.”

“We searched--” John breaks off with a half-laugh. Trust Rodney to squirrel something away in there. “I’ll be damned.”

He takes another sip of the water. It tastes a little salty, perhaps, like there are minerals mixed in, but beneath the salt, it’s definitely cleaner than even the boiled river water.

“I should hope not,” Teyla remarks. “You have already been through hell. I warned them that the batteries would wear out if they used them too much, but if they do...”

“Rodney kept more than one set of spare batteries, huh?” John shakes his head as he eases himself back - only he miscalculates and bumps his head on the trunk of the tree. “Ow.”

Teyla gives him the kind of look she gives Torren when the kid has been deliberately misbehaving and has just hurt himself. John probably looks almost as sheepish as his namesake does.

And, while he’s got the sheepish thing going, he might as well say something else. “I guess I should probably thank you.”

“For looking after you while you were sick?” Teyla asks, laughter vibrating in her voice.

“And not leaving me to die.”

His sideways glance at her is intercepted with arch amusement. “I did not wish to have to do the paperwork when we returned to Atlantis.”

He snorts at that, although it hurts his stomach. There’s no Carson to clear him for duty, no Jennifer to say he can go back to his rooms but to be careful. Just Teyla and her careful care and her loyal practicality.

“Yeah, well... I’m grateful for the paperwork, then. Well, not exactly, but...”

“But I know what you mean, and you understand what I mean,” Teyla finishes for him, smiling.

“That.”

John stretches out his legs and lets the sunlight it wash over him, warming his legs and burnishing his skin while the Venitrians go about their daily tasks with called greetings and quick smiles, and Teyla sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT: coolbreeze1 asked for " _a John and Teyla friendship story, where the two of them are stuck offworld in a refugee camp type of situation. They are either waiting for rescue or trying to figure out a way home, and I would like them to have friendly relations with whoever they're stuck with. I'd like the focus of the whump to be on illness rather than injury; it'd be great if it is something that starts off mildly and gradually worsens as John continues to go about his day-to-day activities; feel free to make John really, really sick. I'd also like Teyla to be the one taking care of him throughout; I would love to see her use both her Athosian knowledge of medicine and what she's learned from being on Atlantis as she tries to care for John._ "


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